


Ten Fires

by kel_1970



Category: Emergency!
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kel_1970/pseuds/kel_1970
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten stand-alone stories, each about a different fire. No need to wait to read until the entire story is complete as each chapter is a complete story in itself. No romance, no tragic deaths of main characters, no spiritual/religious content. Just fires, and our favorite cast of characters. Chapters with content that requires warnings will have such in the header of the chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story will be a series of ten stand-alone one-shots, each about a completely different fire. Ten is my plan for now; if I run out of fuel (or oxygen, or heat, or chemical reaction) I can always change the title, LOL!

  
  


**Chapter 1.**

Sam Lanier sat behind his modern dispatch console, waiting for the next call. It wouldn’t be long, he guessed. It had been that kind of day—call after call after call.

He’d noticed over the past few months that while the overall number of fire calls seemed to be holding steady, there were more and more rescue calls. Now that people were getting used to the idea that the fire department had paramedics who really could save your life before you got anywhere near a hospital, calls that people used to place directly to the ambulance companies were going to County Dispatch instead.

As part of the training for dispatchers when the paramedic program was being rolled out, Sam had done some ride-alongs with one of the rescue units. He was certainly impressed, and he’d also had the sense, right away, that he was losing touch with the fire service. The injury that had permanently taken him off active duty as a fireman had, in a sense, left him stranded in 1970, in terms of his knowledge of what actually happened in the field.

He’d learned, as was essential for the job, to ask the right questions of people calling for medical help. But he was always more comfortable talking to the callers who were reporting a good, old-fashioned fire. That, he could understand, inside and out. He could form a picture in his head of what was going on at the scene, and dispatch the right combination of resources, every time.

Well, _almost_ every time.

~!~!~!~

BWAAM, BWOOM BWEEEP!

“ _Station 51, Engine 110, Truck 8; report of a structure fire, 2214 Fargo Lane, cross street Melody. 2-2-1-4 Fargo Lane, cross street Melody Avenue. Time out: 1828._ ”

Silverware clattered into dishes and onto the table at Station 51. Six pairs of feet moved their owners quickly to their respective vehicles. Captain Hank Stanley watched his crew with pride, as he acknowledged the call on the radio at the call station. Less than a minute after the tones dropped, the two vehicles were out of the apparatus bay and on the way to their destination.

Once they were underway, Cap picked up the handset of the mobile radio.

“L.A., Engine 51. Do you have any further information?”

There was a short pause on the other end.

“ _51, a neighbor reported thick smoke coming out from under the eaves. No flames showing._ ”

“Copy that,” Cap replied.

Three minutes after the vehicles cleared the apparatus bay, the engine pulled up in front of their destination. Even before they stopped moving, Captain Stanley was in investigative mode, eyeing the scene from the windshield. Droplets of water from the intermittent drizzle obscured his vision slightly, until Stoker hit the windshield-wiper control again.

There were two cars in the driveway, and the front yard was littered with children’s toys. A family lived there, and they were likely home.

Smoke billowed from under the eaves in the back of the house—puffs of dark gray, mixed with the occasional burst of sooty black.

Cap took this all in within an eye-blink.

“Chet, Marco—front door. Gage, DeSoto—gimme a three-sixty walk-around.”

Cap already had his suspicions of what they’d find—he’d already had three large hints that pointed to a likely explanation, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.

“L.A., from Engine 51. We are on scene and investigating. Smoke visible from the rear of a one-story residential structure. Continue other units.”

“ _10-4, 51,_ ” squawked the radio.

Captain Stanley heard sirens approaching, from about two blocks away. It would be Engine 110—their station was just a little farther from the scene than 51s.

“Engine 110, from Engine 51. Hold at the hydrant in front of 2202 Fargo.”

“ _Copy that,_ ” 110’s captain responded.

Now, all Hank could do was wait until his men reported back.

~!~!~!~

There was a flash of pink as Roy opened the gate to the back yard.

A little girl shrieked, and ran away, her damp pink umbrella landing, temporarily forgotten, in front of the two men.

“Daddy, Daddy! It’s strangers! _Fireman_ strangers!”

Roy picked up the pink umbrella and handed it to Johnny.

Johnny rolled his eyes. “Thanks. And, I guess we’re about to find out for sure that this is what we were hopin’ it’d be.”

They rounded the corner.

“Yup,” Roy said.

The grill was up on the back porch. A thirty-something man was scrubbing away at it, occasionally backing away as a gout of smoke burst forth. He froze, as he saw two fully-geared firefighters approaching, one holding a large fire extinguisher, and one holding an axe and his daughter’s pink umbrella.

“Um …” the man said, a greasy metal brush dangling from his hand.

Everyone stood there looking at each other for a second.

Johnny grabbed his radio.

“Cap, it’s a barbecue. On the porch.”

There was a pause—just long enough to give Roy and Johnny time to imagine the expression on Cap’s face, and Mike’s stifled snickers. They’d all silently been hoping it was just a grill, but the fact that it was on the porch would surely get Cap going.

“ _Copy that. On my way. L.A., from 51. We have a barbecue. Cancel Truck 8, and return Engine 110._ ”

The wind caught the smoke from the grill just right—or just wrong—and once again blew it up under the roof of the porch, towards the house. Its path of least resistance then became to waft out from under the eaves of the roof of the house, mimicking—at least as observed from a distance—the flow of smoke that could happen in an attic fire.

Captain Stanley rounded the corner, his skunk-striped helmet leading the way.

“Uh, am I in trouble?” the fellow at the grill asked, having reacquired his ability to speak. He looked at Cap, realizing that his different helmet probably meant something.

“Well, you really can’t have your grill on the porch. County ordinance says it needs to be ten feet away from any structures,” Cap said patiently.

“Oh,” the man said. “But I’m not actually _cooking_ anything. I just put it up here so I could, you know, clean it up a little. Burn off the crud. Out of the rain.”

“‘Burn’ being the operative word, here,” Cap said. “Just because you’re not cooking anything, doesn’t mean you’re not creating a hazardous situation.”

As if it were listening, the grill suddenly flared up, a burst of flame spewing up as a glob of grease ignited.

“All right, all right,” the man sighed, as he turned the knob on the grill to shut off the propane. “And who the heck sent you guys, anyhow?”

“I don’t know,” Cap said truthfully. “All that the dispatcher told us was that a neighbor was concerned you had a fire in your attic.”

The man scowled. “Probably Wade Johnson. He’s a nosy parker, all right.”

“Well, if it _had_ been an attic fire, whoever reported it could’ve saved your family’s lives. So if I were you, I’d think twice about getting annoyed about this,” Cap warned. “As for now—I need to hear from you that you’re not going to reignite this grill while it’s on the porch.”

“Yeah, okay, okay. I guess it was a stupid idea.”

Cap was too diplomatic to agree out loud, or even nod. “Oven cleaner spray should do the trick. Make sure you wait till the grill is completely cold before you try it, though.”

“Okay.” The man shifted back and forth on his feet. “So, uh, I don’t get a ticket or anything?”

“I won’t cite you this time. But please, don’t light the grill on your porch again. The ordinance is in place for a reason—in fact, just last spring, a house burned to the ground because of a fire started by a grill on a porch,” Cap said.

“Oh.”

Cap felt a tugging sensation on his coat, and looked down.

“Are you the boss?” the little girl asked.

“Why, yes, I suppose I am,” Captain Stanley said.

“Then can you make _him_ give me my ‘brella back?” she said, pointing accusingly at Johnny.

Johnny looked down at the gear he was holding.

“Huh? Oh. Sorry,” he said, handing the umbrella back to the little girl, handle first.

“Kinda thought it suited you,” Roy said under his breath.

Cap cleared his throat loudly.

“All right, I think we’re all set here, men,” he said. “Sir, take care.”

“You too. And, uh, thanks for not giving me a ticket.”

“You’re welcome. Now, we’ll get out of your hair,” Captain Stanley said. He thumped Roy on the shoulder, ever so slightly harder than was truly companionable, and the three men turned and exited the yard.

Johnny opened the hand-tool compartment on the squad. Loudly.

“Now that was uncalled-for, Roy,” Johnny said, securing the axe and slamming the compartment shut again.

“But you were _twirling_ it,” Roy said, as they got into the squad.

Chet passed by at the worst possible moment.

“Twirling what?” he asked.

“Never mind,” Johnny said, at the exact moment that Roy said “The pink umbrella.”

“Don’t start, Kelly,” Cap warned. “And DeSoto—I’m surprised at you.”

Doors slammed, as the men took their places.

“I wouldn’t’a been twirling it in the first place if you hadn’t handed it to me,” Johnny said.

“I just wanted to see if you’d actually take it,” Roy replied, as he rounded the block, heading back towards the station.

“Don’t know why I even did,” Johnny muttered. “And now Kelly’s got a hold of it. Thanks a lot, _partner_.”

Roy drove on without saying anything, until the squad was backed into its spot in the bay.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Aw, it’s okay. I know you’ve got my back,” Johnny said.

“Always,” Roy said.

**TBC with other stand-alone chapters!**

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Inspired by real life, but embellished, because although truth is sometimes stranger than fiction, it’s often less interesting. This vignette is from a different perspective—not the people who usually supply our POVs. If the beginning seems mystifying, bear with me.

**Chapter 2.**

Frank Barron exited the parking garage and headed for the main road. He loosened his tie with one hand while he drove. He couldn’t quite get it all the way off, but decided to be satisfied with the feeling of being only slightly strangled rather than completely suffocated.

The staff meeting had been interminable. Everyone was cranky in the heat, and Frank, as the boss, had to try to keep it together to set a good example. But now the day was over, and he could be a total bastard if he felt like it.

Well, at least for the forty-five-minute commute home.

He didn’t know how Sheila did it—working all morning at the school office, and then having to pick the kids up the instant her workday was done. If there were any such thing as a Dick Tracy watch, he’d call her on the way home and tell her not to make dinner tonight; tell her that he’d pick up a pizza or something on the way home. Lord knew she deserved a break. He resolved that if the weather forecast were the same for tomorrow—intense heat, with no chance of relief even after sunset—he’d make sure she didn’t have to cook tomorrow night.

In addition to wishing for a Dick Tracy watch, Frank coveted automatic windows. Bill next door was showing his off the other day, and while Frank had pooh-poohed the idea, he devoutly wished for the gizmos himself at this moment. Even with the driver’s window rolled down, the heat was unbearable, and if he couldn’t get his tie off without causing an accident, there was no way he could open the passenger-side window while on the move. But he chuckled as he realized his neighbor, whose wife was strict about such things, would never be allowed to do, in their fancy new car, what Frank was about to do.

He pushed in the cigarette lighter below the radio on the dash, and pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket. When the lighter popped out, he didn’t even have to look to carry out the familiar sequence of actions, and within seconds was having his first delightful drag.

The nicotine filtered into his bloodstream, and he immediately felt more settled. He could handle the heat, now, and was looking forwards to getting home to his family. As he drove towards the freeway, he thought about lying in the hammock in the yard, watching the kids play. He finished his cigarette just as he hit the on-ramp, and tossed the butt out the window.

Yes sir, it was going to be a fine evening.

~!~!~!~

The smoldering cigarette butt landed on the side of the road, and was quickly blown and buffeted into the crisp, brown triangle of foot-tall grass between the on-ramp and the freeway. A tiny thread of tobacco was all that was still alight, but it quickly hooked up with a blade of dessicated grass, and a sputtering ember became the smallest imaginable fire. A minuscule wisp of smoke rose from the orange dot of flame, but was immediately blown away by the same breeze that planted the butt in the grass to begin with.

The breeze continued to fan the tiny flame, but no drivers, in their rush-hour haste, noticed anything amiss for quite some time. Eventually, though, the situation became noticeable. Passers-by had various thoughts:

“ _Is that really smoke? Or just dust. Probably just dust. I don’t see how a fire could start there.”_

Or perhaps, _“Nothing I can do about it now—I just got on the freeway, and it’s illegal to turn around.”_

And this was frequent as well: _“Oooh, a fire. Someone has surely already reported it, though. Besides, I can’t imagine where I’d find a pay-phone.”_

After a few more minutes, a tow-truck approached. The driver pulled over and put his flashers on.

“Holy crap,” the driver said out loud, even though nobody was with him. “That’s getting a little bit out of control.”

He picked up the radio that he used to stay in touch with the company’s dispatchers.

“Hey Charlie, it’s Steve. You there? Over.”

A moment later, a voice came on the radio.

“ _What’s going on, Steve? Over.”_

“Well, I’m about to get on the highway, right at Old Canyon Road, and I swear to God, the grass is on fire. Can you call the fire department for me? Over.”

“ _Will do—you said the Old Canyon on-ramp? Over.”_

“That’s the one. Over.”

“ _Barry’s calling right now. And it sounds like you forgot you have a fire extinguisher on your truck. Over.”_

Steve swore at himself. “Uh, yeah. I’ll get back to you in a minute. Over and out.”

He pulled the red can from the back of his truck, and pulled the pin out from the handle. The flames were over two feet high—double the height of the grass. Keeping one eye on the traffic, and the other on the fire, he aimed the nozzle at the tops of the flames, and squeezed the handle. Yellowish powder sprayed everywhere, and was carried by the wind as well. The flames subsided somewhat, but only in a small area.

Steve took a deep breath and held it, and moved a few steps closer to the fire. He felt the heat of the flames on his face as he again aimed at the tops of the flames, and squeezed the handle, waving the nozzle back and forth, until all the powder was gone. Once again the flames were only slightly quashed. He left the fire extinguisher where it was, and went back to his truck. He pulled out some of his traffic control gear, and set up cones and triangles to direct traffic away from the left side of the on-ramp, where the grass was now fully ablaze.

The flames grew, and grew, until Steve saw that they were getting dangerously close to where he had his truck idling. He didn’t want to just leave—just get on the highway like he’d planned—but he also didn’t think it was a good idea for him to be where he was at the moment. He carefully backed up fifty feet or so, until he was away from the danger, and then picked up his radio handset again.

“Charlie, Steve again, over.”

Charlie picked up right away this time.

“ _Everything okay there? Over._ ”

“Well, the fire’s getting right up to the road. Can you call the cops, too? I think they oughta shut down the on-ramp, because—” Steve paused, as he heard a siren approaching. “Never mind. I think the fire department is here. I’ll get back to you. Over and out.”

Sure enough, after a station wagon—which swerved to avoid the flames on the left—and a pick-up truck passed by, the next vehicle up the ramp was a fire engine, with the number “51” emblazoned on its side. A sheriff’s car followed, stopping at the bottom of the ramp so the deputy could begin to keep any more traffic from entering the area.

Steve watched as the fire engine pulled right up to the site of the fire. The driver positioned the large truck so it blocked the flow of any additional traffic—smart move, Steve knew, because the passing cars were probably more of a threat to the firefighters than the actual fire was. He himself had nearly been struck many times, mostly by people who were rubbernecking at the accident he was helping to clean up.

Two men jumped out from the truck, and pulled a hose off a reel. The guy who was driving did something with the controls that must have worked the pump, and water started to flow from the hose. A tall man in a helmet with a stripe on it finished talking on his mobile radio, and began approaching Steve’s location.

Steve put a hand up in greeting.

“You the one who called us?” the lanky fireman asked.

“Yessir. I tried to put the fire out, with my fire extinguisher, but … it just didn’t work. Sorry.”

“Not a problem at all—it was smart for you to move away when you realized your extinguisher wasn’t doing the job. And was that your handiwork keeping the cars to the right?”

“Yessir,” Steve said again. “I hope that was all right. I have a permit for traffic control devices on the highway, so I thought I oughta steer folks away.”

The tall fireman nodded. “Good call.”

They both glanced over to the fire, and saw that it was mostly out.

“Wow,” Steve said. “That was fast. How much water do you guys carry on there, anyhow?”

“Five hundred gallons. Enough to take care of something like this, or enough to buy us some time if we need to hit a hydrant. Captain Hank Stanley, by the way,” the fireman said, sticking his hand out.

They shook.

“Steve Furman. I’m glad your guys made such short work of it. Sorry I couldn’t put it out.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for. Come on—let’s pick up your extinguisher.”

The two headed to the engine, Steve trying not to gape at the truck that was a reminder of his (and all his friends’) boyhood dreams.

The two firemen who had put out the fire were rolling the hose they’d used back onto its reel.

“We’re all set, here, Cap,” the shorter of the two said. “I don’t think the fire was going long enough to make any real hot spots, but me and Marco’ll walk through it just to make sure.”

“Good,” said Captain Stanley. He searched the ground near the grass, but didn’t see what he was looking for. “You guys see a dry-chem can around here somewhere? I’ve got its owner, here.”

“Sure, Cap—over there,” said the fireman, pointing towards the rear of the truck.

Captain Stanley walked around to the back of the engine with Steve.

“Huh,” Stanley said. “This is a good-sized can—it should’ve done the job, if it was full.”

“It was full,” Steve said. “I thought I used it right, too—I pulled out the pin, and sprayed back and forth while I squeezed the handle.”

“Okay,” Captain Stanley said. “But where were you aiming?”

“Uh—at the flames. Right? Where the fire was, at the tops of the grass?”

“Ah,” the captain said. “There’s the problem. You want to aim at the base of the fire—the lowest part that’s burning. A lot of people make that mistake. The flames aren’t actually what’s burning—the stuff below is.”

“Oh. So, I should’ve aimed more towards the ground?”

“Yep. Especially with a dry-chem can—the kind of fire extinguisher you have here, that’s got a chemical powder in it.”

“Sorry,” Steve said. “I’ve put out a couple minor engine fires, in my towing business, you know? But I guess those were a lot smaller than this thing.”

Captain Stanley nodded. “Aim for the base of the fire, and sweep the nozzle back and forth.”

For a moment, both men watched the two firefighters walking through the area they’d just extinguished. They had their gloves off, and were feeling around near the ground to make sure everything was cool.

“Well, I guess I oughta head back to work. I was supposed to pick up a broken-down car a couple miles up the road,” Steve said.

“We should be wrapped up here in a minute,” Captain Stanley said, “and the engine will be out of your way. Thanks for stopping and calling this in—things could’ve really gotten out of hand, even in just a couple more minutes.”

“I figured I oughta,” Steve said. “I mean, there’s no way for folks to get to a phone until that emergency phone that’s what, two miles up the road or so? Besides, you never know if anyone’s actually gonna take the time.”

“Well, thank you for taking the time,” Stanley repeated.

“You’re welcome. And thanks for the tips about using the extinguisher.”

The fellow who’d been working the pumps approached, and nodded to Steve.

“Cap, we’re all set,” the blue-eyed man said.

“All right—let’s head back to the barn,” the captain said. He shook hands with Steve again, and the firefighters climbed aboard their engine.

Steve went back to his tow-truck and replaced the now-empty fire extinguisher into its holder. As the engine pulled away, he surveyed the blackened triangle of grass between the on-ramp and the highway. The captain wasn’t kidding about how the fire could’ve gotten out of hand—it could’ve spread all the way down the side of the highway, between it and the access road.

He had a sudden vision of Smokey the Bear, holding his shovel and saying “Only you can prevent forest fires.” Well, it hadn’t been a forest fire, and Steve hadn’t exactly been able to put it out or prevent it. But he’d done his part, and he could leave the scene proud that he’d helped in his own way.

**The End**

**TBC with more vignettes**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The day after I started writing this chapter, a barn in my town was leveled by a fire. The barn didn’t store hay, so that fire probably had a completely different cause from this one, but still, it was a little spooky. Sadly, the barn was the most important structure in a key local organic food business, and the destruction of the barn has jeopardized the future of the farm.   
> As always, constructive criticism is appreciated.

**Chapter 3.**

Douglas Howarth wiped the sweat off his brow, and replaced his cap. The first round of haying for the season was done—just in time, he thought. He would have liked to have given the hay another day to dry in the fields, but it was likely to rain—rain!—tomorrow, so it was a good thing the hay was baled and in the barn. With a sense of accomplishment, he and his sons stowed all the baling equipment, and closed up the barn.

~!~!~!~

The barn was silent, save for the skittering of ever-present small rodents, and the barn cats who often made a meal of them. The bales of hay, packed together tightly in their area of the large barn, settled together. The pile of bales was huge, and tightly packed into the space it was given in the barn.

The next day was rainy, just as was predicted. The air grew heavy and humid. The hay, which was already slightly too damp from being baled earlier than it should have, started to heat up, as microorganisms that thrive in damp, low-oxygen conditions started nibbling away at the pile. The bales were packed tightly enough that the growing heat had nowhere to go.

So the heat kept building, and building. Condensation formed on the inside of the roof, unnoticed by anyone other than a few bats. After a few days, a musty smell developed in the barn, with caramel overtones. Doug noticed the smell, but chalked it up to a pile of canvas feed bags moldering away in a corner. He took them outside and tossed them on the trash heap, and left for the day.

That night, the Howarth family’s world was turned upside down, when Doug started having chest pains and was whisked away to the hospital in L.A. Work still got done on the farm—it _had_ to—but nobody stopped to wonder why the barn smelled so odd. A strange smell was the least of their worries.

A few nights later, the mice and rats started leaving their nests. The barn cats chased them, confused about the sudden exodus. But when the cats went to return to the barn, they, too, could tell something was amiss, and found other shelter, as tendrils of smoke started rising from the spontaneously combusting hay.

~!~!~!~

The two fans in front of the couch in Station 51’s day room seemed to be doing nothing for the three men seated in front of them.

“Move your elbow, Marco—you’re touching me!” Chet said, pulling his body into itself to try and make himself fit better on the middle cushion.

“I can’t help it!” Marco snapped. “I’m all the way over in the corner of my cushion already. Move over towards Stoker if you think I’m too close.”

“Stay right where you are, Kelly,” Mike said. “You’re already mighty close to my cushion, there, pal. Plus you’re making the whole couch sag in the middle. I have to hold on to the arm just to keep from sliding down into your valley.”

“Well it’s not fair!” Chet said. “How come I always get stuck in the middle, anyhow? Gage is skinnier than me by a lot!”

“Well,” Mike said, with far less than his usual patience, “he’s not _here_ , is he?”

“Probably lounging around in the air conditioning at Rampart,” Chet said under his breath.

At the table, Hank Stanley unclenched his teeth and looked up from the newspaper he was failing to read.

“If I have to pull this fire station over, you kids are gonna be sorry,” he said. “And for Pete’s sake, if all three of you all insist on sitting on the couch in front of the fans—which, by the way, one could say you’re hogging up—then shut up and play nicely.”

“But Cap, he’s on my side!” Marco said.

“I am not! Cap, make him stop touching me!”

Hank put his head down on the mercifully cool surface of the table. He thought again about the other captains’ proposal to go in together on a window-unit air conditioner for the station’s office, and resolved that he’d pitch in whatever it took.

“Are you twits purposely trying to annoy me for some reason that I don’t understand?”

“No, Cap,” Mike said. “It’s just that—”

BWAAAAAAM, BWOOOM BWEEEEEEP!

“ _Engine 51, Station 8, Ladder 10, report as second-alarm assignment to a barn fire, 20487 County Route 281. 2-0-4-8-7 County Route 281, cross street Fire Tower Road. Time out: 1428._ ”

Mike had to consult the map to make sure he was going where he thought he was. He had a near photographic memory for named roads in the parts of the county he’d ever driven to, but as soon as the road had a number, he was unsure of himself. With a finger on the map in the bay, he traced the best route, mumbling directions to himself.

On the way to the scene, Mike and Cap listened to the radio chatter on the channel that their incident was using. It was clear from what they could hear that the barn was going to be a loss, as was often the case, and that the goal was going to be to contain the fire as much as possible and keep it from spreading to other structures, or the vegetation around the barn.

Just after Mike passed Fire Tower Road, Cap called in to the incident commander—Captain McGinty from Station 110, who was first on scene—that they would be arriving shortly.

“Command from Engine 51, our ETA is two minutes.”

“ _Copy that, 51. Engine 8 is getting started drafting from a pond at the northwest corner of the property. Come on up the driveway and go past the scene to get there. You’ll lay a supply line from Engine 8 to the scene. I’m gonna have you run a master stream to the northeast corner of the structure,_ ” McGinty ordered.

“10-4,” Cap replied. “Rendezvousing with Engine 8 at the pond, and laying supply line from Engine 8 to the northeast corner.”

Chet and Marco held on for dear life in the cab as the engine bounced and jounced up the driveway, which was better suited for tractors than fire engines. It was several hundred even bumpier feet to the pond. Mike stopped short of Engine 8, and did a neat three-point turn so he could back towards Engine 8. As soon as the engine stopped moving, and the air was no longer flowing through the partially-enclosed cab, the heat once again became oppressive, and within seconds, the men were sweating heavily inside their turnout gear.

Even with their own diesel engine chugging away, the men of Station 51 could hear the unmistakable sound of Engine 8’s priming pump, which shrieked like a wounded wildcat as it expelled the air from the engine’s fire pump, letting the fire pump begin drawing water from the pond through the hard tubing their crew had laid from the pump’s intake into the pond.

Chet and Marco jumped out to pull the supply lines from the back of Engine 51, wrapping them around the bumper of Engine 8 so they could drive off, laying the lines out behind them. They drove slowly back to the scene. The flip-flopping sound of the hose deploying off the back of the engine, and the ‘clunk’ when couplings hit the ground, were masked by the sounds of the diesel engine and the wheels on the gravel-and-mud path.

“ _Engine 51, take the northeast corner. Run a two-and-a-half onto the structure at that corner, and cool the exposure with an inch-and-a-half,_ ” McGinty ordered, as the engine entered the scene.

It was immediately clear why he wanted them there—a silo, unattached to the barn, was in danger of being overrun by the fire in the nearby barn.

“Cap, we could probably pump a master stream and an inch-and-a-half if he wanted. We’re downhill from Engine 8, so that’ll give us a boost,” Mike said to Captain Stanley.

Cap nodded. “I’ll check on that. Go ahead and set up that way,” he said to Chet and Marco. “Kelly, you’re on the master stream; Lopez, you take the exposure.”

Chet and Marco nodded their understanding. Mike pulled the remainder of a length of supply line off the back of the engine, and laid it out so it wouldn’t kink when the water flowed. Chet took the master stream device from the storage area on the top of the engine, and hooked it up to a length of hose. Marco pulled the pre-connected inch-and-a-half towards the silo, and they were ready to flow.

Mike radioed Engine 8’s engineer, and water started flowing to Engine 51. Her pump churned into action, and Mike pulled out various controls, opening valves to flow the water where he wanted it to go. He kept a continuous eye on the pressure he was sending to each device. Chet’s master stream would need everything he could give it, minus what Marco’s line needed.

Vast quantities of water flowed from the nozzle on the tripod Chet had set up. It seemed like the deluge should be quenching the flames, with hundreds of gallons per minute spewing from the tip of the nozzle, but the heat was so intense that it looked like nothing was happening. Even though the master stream sprayed the water far enough that Chet had some good distance between himself and the fire, he was close enough that he could feel the heat pushing out from the barn. All he had to do was stay by the master stream device and make sure it didn’t move around behind the pressure of the water it was spraying, but the heat was intense, and he was quickly drenched in sweat.

Marco’s line sprayed a fog onto the silo, cooling it and the air around it, protecting it from the intense heat of the fire in the adjacent barn. Sweat poured down his face, but was washed away by mist that deflected off the silo and bounced back towards him.

All the while, Mike kept an eye on his gauges, and on Chet and Marco themselves. Chet’s master stream would need everything he could give it, minus what Marco’s line needed. Mike needed to make sure the pressure on Marco’s line was just right, as well. It was only an inch-and-half, but Marco would be handling it by himself, possibly for quite a while. Plus, he’d need to move it around a lot, to cover all parts of the silo. Too much pressure, and the line would be hard to handle. Too little, and the stream wouldn’t reach as high as it needed to on the silo.

The men kept at their tasks. There was a brief interruption in water flow after about fifteen minutes, when Engine 8 had to shut down the pump because the strainer on their suction hose had gotten clogged with something from the pond. Cap took that opportunity to swap Chet and Marco’s positions, just before he himself was given an assignment to briefly rotate in to back up a man from 110s on a two-and-a-half. That assignment was a good call on the incident commander’s part, Cap thought. Chet and Marco’s tasks didn’t require full-time supervision, so Cap was glad to have an active task for a change, even if it was only for fifteen minutes. And in this heat, men doing the heavy work would need to be rotated out frequently.

Cap wasn’t so glad, though, for the steady trickle of sweat that ran down the valley of his spine, or for the fact that, after only fifteen minutes of work, his uniform was completely drenched with sweat under his turnout gear.

After half an hour, the structure of the barn looked more and more precarious. The corner where Engine 51 and her crew were working started to lean towards the rear of the building—a lucky accident, considering that the silo they were protecting was located more towards the side of the barn.

The building made a particularly ominous groaning sound. Cap trotted up to Chet and thumped him on the shoulder. He shouted to be heard over the din of the fire scene.

“Back up five yards or so,” he said. “I don’t like the looks of this.”

“You and me both, Cap,” Chet said. He signaled to Mike that he was shutting down his stream, and Mike signaled back his acknowledgment.

Marco noticed the exchange, and Cap gestured to him to back up as well.

An instant later, Captain McGinty gave a general order for everyone to get outside the collapse zone. The radio order was followed by three long blasts on the air-horn of Engine 110. A flurry of activity ensued, as each team retreated.

Then, with a sound that was somewhere between that of a landing 747 and a Fourth of July gone terribly wrong, what was left of the roof of the structure fell in, followed quickly by three of the four walls. The wall nearest Engine 51’s crew hovered improbably, seeming to defy gravity. Almost in slow motion, the final wall tilted away from the rest of the burning heap of timber and hay bales.

“Move, move, _move_!” Captain Stanley shouted instinctively, even though Chet and Marco were already outside the area that it looked like the wall was going to hit.

A huge barn beam landed right where Chet had been positioned, sending chunks of flaming wood in every direction. Marco turned his line to the fiery debris that now littered the area between the former barn and Engine 51.

“Marco!” Mike hollered. “Hit the hosebed!”

All eyes of Engine 51’s crew turned to their apparatus. Licks of flame showed from fragments of debris that had made it all the way to the engine. Cap dashed to the Engine, pulling on his thick fire gloves, and climbed up to the hosebed. Marco’s stream of water quickly doused the flames, and soaked Cap thoroughly, as he tossed chunk after chunk of debris off the top of the engine. Chet pulled the reel line, and Mike charged the line so Chet could hit some of the debris in the area between the engine and the barn.

“ _51 from command, what’s your status?”_ McGinty asked.

“The east side collapsed outwards, with wide scatter of debris. We’re hitting the debris right now, but we should be able to get the master stream up and running shortly,” Cap replied, breathless from his sudden flurry of activity. “The engine got hit by some debris but can remain in service. We’re no longer cooling the silo off the northeast corner, while we handle the debris between the engine and the barn.”

“ _Copy that,_ ” McGinty said. “ _Bring your master stream back on line when you can_. _I’ll have another team take over that exposure for now._ ”

“Received,” Cap replied.

Chet and Marco quenched and cooled the debris that was in the way of their resuming the containment of the fire. Two men came over from the rear of the building, and resumed spraying down the silo. Cap used a pike pole to separate and turn debris that Chet and Marco were cooling, to make sure that each surface of the smoldering chunks of wood got cooled sufficiently.

“That should do it, men,” Cap said, after about ten minutes of work on the debris. “Marco, you can get back to the exposure, and Chet, get that master stream going again.” He radioed McGinty again to inform him they were getting back to their original assignment.

An hour and tens of thousands of gallons of water later, the huge conflagration had been reduced to a pile of smoldering and steaming beams. The fire was under control, but their work wasn’t yet done. What was left of the barn could still flare up again if every pocket of fire and heat wasn’t cooled sufficiently, which could be tricky with thick barn beams. The barn itself was a total loss, but they didn’t want to risk the adjacent buildings, which through great effort and skill on the part of the group of firefighters at the scene had remained relatively intact.

The control of the fire had happened not a moment too soon, from the next transmission that Cap heard on the radio.

“ _Command, from Engine 8._ ”

“ _Go ahead, 8._ ”

“ _This pond isn’t gonna give us much more. There’s a stream about a quarter mile away that we could dam up, and do a tanker operation off of, but I think this pond is only gonna give us another twenty minutes or so._ ”

“ _Copy that,_ ” McGinty replied. “ _I had dispatch move some tankers up towards our location. You stay put, and I’ll put another engine on the stream._ ”

Cap knew it wouldn’t be Engine 51; they’d pulled almost every foot of hose off the engine, and it would take them far longer to repack all of that and get to the stream than it would for an engine that had only had one line pulled off it, and didn’t have nearly a thousand feet of supply line lying on the ground.

Twenty minutes later, tankers were shuttling water from the nearby stream into artificial ponds set up at the fire scene. Ten minutes after that—longer than Engine 8’s engineer had predicted—Engine 51s water supply from the pond, via Engine 8, dwindled.

“ _Command, from Engine 8. We’re running into the end of the clear water from this pond. Shutting down in two minutes._ ”

“ _Command copies. Engine 51, you can suspend your master stream and inch-and-a-half. This fire is under control. Engine 51 is dismissed. Ladder 10 is dismissed. Engine 8, report to the scene for overhaul when you’re wrapped up at the pond,_ ” McGinty said.

Cap breathed a sigh of relief, and imagined that he heard his three men do the same. The barn was reduced to a heap of steaming, smoldering rubble, with licks of flame still popping out here and there, but the silo they’d been protecting seemed to be safe. The roaring inferno had been tamed, but everyone knew there was still plenty of work to be done in overhauling the scene. Every piece of rubble had to be turned and doused; every pocket of heat cooled with the water now being ferried in by the tankers. It was miserable work, made an order of magnitude more miserable by the hot, humid conditions.

Cap delivered the good news to Marco and Chet, who looked equally bored with their tasks, both of which probably could have been suspended fifteen minutes previously. But better safe than sorry, Cap thought, with a fire that had gotten as hot as this one. The thick barn beams could easily be holding on to unexpected amounts of heat. Nobody wanted the fire to flare up again, either in half an hour or the next day.

“No such thing as too much water on a barn fire,” Cap said to himself, as he returned to the engine to inform Mike of the plans.

“What’s that, Cap?” Mike said.

Cap stared at Mike, and shook his head in disbelief.

“Shouldn’t you be deaf, like the rest of us, after years and years of standing there with your head right next to a fire pump?”

“Well, I didn’t hear _what_ you said. I just could tell you _said_ something, is all. Trust me, I’m plenty deaf,” Stoker replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. “But was it anything important?”

Hank shook his head. “Nope. Just talking to myself. And all I said was you can’t put too much water on a barn fire.”

“Too true,” Mike said.

“Anyhow, we’re dismissed,” Cap said.

“I figured,” Mike said, as he throttled the engine down. He surveyed the scene. “Man, it’s gonna take forever to get all this hose packed up again. And we’re definitely gonna have to spray it down and hang it up back at the station.”

Cap clapped Mike on the shoulder. “Well, the sooner we start, the sooner we’re done.”

“Gonna hafta flush the pump and the tank out but good, too. I _hate_ ponds. You never know what’s getting in your pump,” Mike said, literally shuddering. “I mean, just think of all the stuff that’s small enough to get through the strainers on the hard suction—weeds, mud, slime, tadpoles and … little fish, even!” Mike’s pitch rose as he became more agitated than the situation seemed to demand.

“All right, all right—calm down there, pal,” Cap said soothingly, while trying not to laugh at his fastidious engineer. “We’ll be sure to give our engine a nice flush-out back at the station. No harm, no foul.”

“And _speaking_ of foul—or should I say fowl—did you see that chicken? I mean, did you _see_ it? It flapped right up onto the top of the cab, and I’m sure it took a crap up there,” Mike said, as he started disconnecting the supply line. “I didn’t even think they were supposed to be able to fly!”

Cap shook his head. “Mike, I’ll say one thing for sure. Nobody’s ever gonna mistake you for a country boy. C’mon. Let’s start breaking down this supply line.”

It took nearly an hour to drain and repack eight hundred-foot lengths of supply line, the inch-and-a-half, and the length of hose Chet had pulled for the master stream. Since they were finally out from under the pressure of fighting an active fire, they took plenty of breaks to drink from their canteens in the sweltering heat.

It was nearly supper time when the crew returned to the station, knowing they still had a good bit of work ahead of them to take care of the filthy lengths of hose they’d put back on the engine. Every length of hose would need to be rinsed, and hung to dry. The engine would need washing, and Mike would need to take it out to the apron in front of the station, and use the hydrant there to flush any remaining pond water from the tank and the pump.

“All right, we’re stood down for a bit to get ourselves back in service, so everyone get some water, hit the head, do whatever you need to do for ten minutes, before we get back to it,” Cap declared, as they pulled into the bay. “Don’t bother getting changed, because we’re just gonna get all hot and sweaty again cleaning up.”

The squad was parked in its spot, and good smells were coming from the kitchen.

“Hm, smells like Gage and DeSoto found the dinner supplies,” Marco said, as the men trooped into the day room to get something to drink.

They opened the door to the day room, and entered one after the other.

“Man, it’s great in here!” Chet said. “So nice and cool, after that hellish fire.”

“I’ll second that,” Stoker said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out the pitcher of orange juice. “It was miserable out there, and I was a lot farther away from the fire than you guys.”

“Hmph,” came the retort from the area of the sofa.

Four sweaty heads turned to the couch area. Roy and Johnny were sitting sullenly on the sofa, each with a fan in front of him.

“What’s the matter with you two?” Captain Stanley asked. The frowns coming from the couch were apparently contagious, as Stanley’s eyebrows were furrowed.

“Nothing,” Roy said, uncharacteristically laconic.

“It’s just too darned _hot_ , Cap,” Johnny complained, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

The other four men in the kitchen paused in their actions for a moment, and then all laughed at once.

“What’s so funny?” Johnny asked, scowling hard enough that two tiny droplets of sweat on his forehead coalesced into one and trickled down the side of his nose.

“Never mind,” Cap said. “I guess you just had to be there.”

**End of this vignette**

**Series TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though we never see it used in the show, Engine 51 carries the equipment for drafting (getting water from a static, unpressurized source of water such as a pond, versus using a hydrant). If you look at a driver’s-side photo of the engine, you’ll see two long black tubes—the suction hose that is used for drawing water out of a static source. You can’t use normal supply hose for that, as the suction from the pump would collapse a regular hose.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a slight left turn on June 30th. I debated putting it back the way it was originally meant to be, and then decided it was meant to be this way.

**Chapter 4.**

The blue metal container sat there in the parking lot of the office building, waiting for someone to feed it again. Its last human visitor had been someone who removed things, rather than adding things—this happened nightly in the wee hours, after the restaurant on the ground floor of the building made its last deposit of the night.

The last human visitor had left the black plastic lid of the dumpster open, inviting a bevy of rodents to feast on what the human had left behind. When the sun rose, most of these visitors scurried away to their hideouts, taking with them full bellies and scraps for later.

At eight in the morning, cars began filling in the spaces in the lot. Half an hour later, the dumpster got its first deposit of the day: a black bag of trash, mostly paper, from a lawyer’s office on the second floor. The next deposit came shortly afterwards, when the night custodian tossed in a bag of bathroom trash.

Things were slow, for a while, until lunch time, when a painting crew working on the third floor came down. One man tossed in a pile of rags, and another emptied a wastebasket into the container, before they both went to their truck and got their lunch boxes.

They sat on the tailgate of the pickup to eat.

“Those windows really turned out nice,” one guy said to the other.

“Call me old-fashioned,” said the second guy, “but I always like a linseed oil finish.”

“Okay,” the first guy said. “You’re old-fashioned.”

He cheerfully took the elbow to his ribs, and the two men ate their lunch and joked around, until it was time to go back to work.

The pile of linseed-oil-soaked rags languished at the top of the trash in the dumpster. Air filtered around the loose heap, oxidizing the oil. As the oil oxidized, heat was released. The heat sped the oxidation, releasing still more heat. With the lid of the dumpster open, someone who was looking towards the container might see shimmering, as the heat created convection currents in the air above the container.

But nobody likes looking at a dumpster.

A crow landed on the edge of the dumpster, eyeing some of the restaurant’s discarded food. It hopped down onto the pile of trash, and squawked loudly as its wing touched the hot rags. It flapped away, cawing its annoyance at not being able to get to the delicious treats it could see.

At three o’clock, the garbage truck arrived. Its forklift-like appendage speared the attachments on the bottom of the dumpster that were there to accommodate the truck’s lifting mechanism. With a loud scraping sound, the garbage truck lifted the dumpster off the pavement of the parking lot, and over the cab of the truck, turning the container upside-down over the open cargo area. The week’s trash landed on the top of the pile. Some trash slid down the heap, following the angle of repose and coming to rest against the sides of the truck’s cargo area.

The lifting mechanism lowered the dumpster back to its assigned location in the parking lot, empty save a few sticky morsels that clung to the inside of the container.

In the back of the garbage truck, the rags remained loosely clumped together, as if united in a common cause, in a hollow between two black trash bags. Heat continued to build, and the runaway oxidation reaction turned into a different beast entirely: fire. The truck pulled out of the parking lot, its new passenger unnoticed by the crew.

“Okay, Ben; I think that’s the last one for the day,” the driver said.

“Hang on, lemme look,” Ben said, hopping down from the cab of the truck. He peered upwards, and could just barely see the peak of the pile. He climbed back into the cab.

“Yep—we’re really full, Dave. Time for a landfill run.”

Thin tendrils of smoke that had started to rise from the rags escaped Ben’s notice. They were small, and weak, but held the promise of more to come.

The garbage truck backed slowly out of the parking lot, and turned onto the road. The tiny flames in the rags breathed in the air that passed gently over the rubbish as the truck passed through the stop-and-go city traffic. There was some smoke, but it was indistinguishable from the black diesel exhaust the truck spewed each time it started from a stop, and whenever it changed gears.

The black plastic bags that the rags were nestled in melted quickly, spilling their refuse. One contained crumpled and shredded paper from the lawyer’s office just downstairs of the room where the rags had been used to finish window frames. The tongues of flame licked greedily into this perfect fuel, just as the garbage truck chugged its way up the entrance ramp onto the 405, headed towards the landfill at the edge of the county.

The truck slowly worked its way up to fifty-five miles per hour. Ben and Dave chatted, and when the drivers that passed them started honking and waving frantically, they didn’t notice. When another passing truck blew its airhorn loudly and lengthily as it passed, Dave began to wonder if there was something wrong. He looked at his wheels in his side mirrors, and didn’t see any smoke coming from the brakes. He tapped the brakes, and everything seemed fine. He double-checked the position of the levers that controlled the dumpster-lifting mechanism, the rear gate of the truck, and the tilt of the bed of the truck, and everything was right where it should be.

“Whaddaya think, Ben? Should we pull over?” Dave asked, finally. “I mean, I hate stopping on the highway—it’s a great way to get killed.”

Ben looked in the mirror on his side. It wasn’t adjusted for his use, of course, but if he leaned forwards just right, he could see behind the truck. Not immediately to the rear, which was a blind spot on any large truck, but a vehicle’s length back.

“Uh, yeah—definitely pull over. Check your mirror again,” Ben said.

Dave did so. The flashing red lights on top of the black-and-white patrol car behind him did not escape his attention.

“Oh, crap. Yep. Pulling over,” Dave said.

He signaled right, and pulled over. The sheriff’s deputy pulled up next to him.

“Out of the truck! Now! Get out and stand away from your truck!”

Dave and Ben looked at each other in alarm.

“What’d we do?” Ben asked, as started getting out.

“ _Now!_ ” the deputy shouted again. “You’re on fire!”

“Oh, shit!” Dave said, as he and Ben scrambled madly out their respective doors.

They ran the ten yards the deputy had ordered, before stopping and turning to look.

“Ho … ly … crap,” Ben said, gaping at the scene in front of him.

Flames were shooting fifteen feet in the air above the burning load of trash. Two more sheriff’s vehicles approached, each stopping in their lane to shut the lane down. Traffic crawled by in the one lane still open.

~!~!~!~

BWAAAAAAM, BWOOOM BWEEEEEEP!

“ _Station 51, report of a truck fire on 405 Northbound, between Crenshaw and Artesia. Truck fire, 405 North, between Crenshaw and Artesia. Time out: 1521._ ”

“Station 51, KMG-365,” Cap responded at the call station.

He filled out the slip of paper, and climbed into the engine next to Stoker. The squad had already pulled out ahead of them, leading the way to the location, which was out of their district. Cap recalled that Station 36 was out on a garage fire, which explained why 51s needed to take this one.

Even if Stoker hadn’t already known exactly how far he was from the scene once he got on the 405, he could’ve guessed they were approaching when the traffic crawled to a stop, and when a plume of greasy-looking black smoke appeared ahead of them. Mike assumed the truck on fire would be on the right shoulder, so he took the engine to that shoulder once traffic had stopped flowing.

As they got closer to the scene, they could see the flames and smell the fire itself.

“That doesn’t smell like a regular truck fire,” Chet said, shouting so he could be heard.

Everyone expected to see a fire in the engine compartment, possibly consuming the cab of the truck. But as happens so often, what they encountered was not what they’d expected.

“Oh, man,” Marco said, as Mike pulled to a stop exactly the right distance from the garbage truck. As soon as he was stopped, he reached for the hydrant map book.

Cap studied the scene for a moment, as everyone gathered beside the engine, with Mike following ten seconds later.

“Chet, throw a roof ladder up against the engine’s cab on the driver’s side,” Cap said. “Marco, pull an inch-and-a-half and hit that fire from up on the ladder. John, Roy, get the 24-footer and get a supply line up over that sound barrier. See if you can see a street sign over there; I’m gonna request an engine to pump to us from a hydrant on the other side.”

Mike flipped through pages in the hydrant map book. The decision to try to drape a supply hose over the noise barrier was unusual, and might not actually work, but he couldn’t think of any more practical solution at the moment. There weren’t any hydrants on this stretch of interstate, but the highway was built right through an existing residential neighborhood, which he quickly found in his map book.

“Hydrant map has a couple possibilities, depending on where we are, exactly,” he said to Cap, as he turned to get to the pump panel.

Cap nodded, and got back in the engine.

“L.A., Engine 51.”

“ _Go ahead, 51.”_

“We have a large garbage truck, fully loaded, with the contents well involved. We’ll need an additional engine in our vicinity, in the residential neighborhood immediately to our west. I’ll supply an exact street shortly.”

“ _Copy that, 51_ ,” the dispatcher said. The mobile radio in the engine rang out with the sound of another engine being toned out to the location Captain Stanley had requested.

Meanwhile, Johnny had thrown the extension ladder up against the concrete wall that served as a sound barrier between the highway and the residential neighborhood immediately behind it. Roy locked his leg into a rung of the ladder so he could work more safely, and pulled a length of supply line up the ladder, as Johnny fed the line off the back of the engine. Roy threw the coupling as far as he could over the edge of the wall, and came back down the ladder.

“Cap, I can see a hydrant, less than a block away. Pretty sure it’s on 177th street,” Roy said.

Cap radioed that information to dispatch, and then turned back to John and Roy.

“Whaddaya say, fellas? Is it close enough you could pull the supply line over there, and I’ll cancel the relay engine?”

“Up and over a 12-foot wall,” Johnny said, “but doable, I think.”

“We can put a plastic tarp over the wall to cut down on friction when we pull the hose over it,” Roy said. “As long at the hose doesn’t kink, we oughta be all right.”

“Do it,” Cap said. “Whoever goes over will be stuck on the other side of the wall, but we’re gonna need the water sooner than we’ll need manpower.”

Roy increased the height of the ladder, to make it appropriate for their new task of going up and over the wall, while Johnny got a plastic tarp out. He sent it up the ladder to Roy, and then returned to the engine for the hydrant bag.

“Hey,” he called up the ladder to Roy. “Can you see what kind of hydrant it is? Do we need any adapters?”

Roy squinted at the hydrant. “Standard residential hydrant—we should be good.” He climbed up to the top of the wall, and straddled the wall. He briefly tipped the ladder away from the wall, to slip one side of the tarp under it, so the ladder would keep the tarp from sliding off the wall as they pulled the hose over it.

“Okay,” he said to Johnny, who was standing at the foot of the ladder. “Bring that hydrant bag up. I guess I’ll go over, since I’m already up here.”

“All right—I’ll come get you in the squad when we’re wrapped up,” Johnny said, as he hauled the heavy bag of hydrant equipment up the ladder. When he reached the top, he dropped the bag unceremoniously over the wall—there was nothing in it that could possibly break from a 12-foot fall into brush.

Roy swung his other leg over the wall, and hung briefly from his fingertips before dropping the rest of the way to the ground. He landed awkwardly, and fell to one side, catching himself on an outstretched arm.

“Ow,” he complained, rubbing his wrist, and then the ankle on the same side.

“You okay?” Johnny asked.

“Uh …” Roy said, feeling his ankle some more. “Maybe … not entirely.”

Johnny turned his head, searching for the white-striped helmet.

“Hey Cap?” he shouted, putting his hands to his mouth to direct the sound over the din of the fire scene.

Captain Stanley looked up, then trotted over to the ladder.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, knowing just from Johnny’s tone and facial expression that something was amiss.

“Roy’s down—twisted ankle. I’m gonna go over too, and hit the hydrant, and then I’ll look him over,” Johnny said. He didn’t miss the brief falter in Cap’s step at the initial words of his report, so he added to what he said. “He’ll be fine.”

Cap regained his bearings, and nodded slightly. “Okay—he has the HT, so radio me if you need a squad.”

“Will do,” Johnny said. He, too, then disappeared over the wall. He landed no more gracefully than his partner, but without injury.

“You stay put,” Johnny said to Roy. “I’ll hit that hydrant, and then have a look at that ankle.”

“Okay,” Roy said.

From his lack of protest, Johnny gleaned that Roy’s ankle was probably more than just twisted. He tried not to think about it as he put the coupling over his shoulder and dragged the supply line towards the hydrant. Halfway there, as the hose got heavier, he had to put the hydrant bag down so he could really put his weight into the job. A coupling snagged on the tarp, giving Johnny a moment of doubt that this plan was going to work after all, but then the coupling popped over the wall, the suddenness of its release nearly making Johnny fall on his face.

“That’d just take the cake,” Johnny muttered to himself, as he hauled the supply line the last few feet to the hydrant. He ran back to the hydrant bag, and made quick work of removing the cap from the hydrant, flushing it out, and attaching the supply line to the hydrant. He signaled a thumbs-up to Roy, who radioed to Mike that the hydrant was ready. Roy traced a wide circle in the air over his head, gesturing to Johnny to open the hydrant.

Johnny looked at the supply line’s unorthodox path. It lay draped over a twelve-foot wall, which in effect made it take an unavoidable sharp turn. Sharp turns in hoses were a bad idea; the hose could kink, impeding the flow of water. He knew Engine 51 would be up to the task of pumping from the hydrant, but you never knew how much pressure a hydrant would give until you started up the pumps, and there was always a chance this hydrant would be a dud, and the hose would kink where it went over the wall. But as he opened the hydrant, the hose filled up, arcing gracefully over the wall.

“What in the world is going on?” a voice said from behind Johnny, causing him to spin awkwardly.

“Huh?” Johnny said, having briefly forgotten that there might be people around in a residential neighborhood. “Oh—there’s a garbage truck on fire on the 405.”

“I guess that accounts for the horrible smell,” the woman said. “And—is he okay?” she asked, pointing to Roy.

“He twisted his ankle on the way over the wall. I better go check him out,” Johnny said. “’Scuse me.”

“Certainly. I’ll get you some ice,” the woman said.

Johnny opened his mouth to say they had chemical cold packs in the squad, but then remembered the squad and its contents were on the wrong side of a 12-foot wall.

“Thanks,” he said.

Roy had extricated himself from the bushes at the foot of the wall, and was seated on the curb. He already had his boot and sock off, and was inspecting his ankle.

“That’s pretty swollen,” Johnny said. “Lemme see.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s just sprained,” Roy said, as Johnny felt around the joint.

“Probably,” Johnny said, noting Roy’s wince as he palpated the location of the ligaments most likely to be injured in an ankle sprain. “You still gotta go in, though. Get it x-rayed.”

“Yeah. I know.”

The radio squawked to life.

“ _HT 51, from Engine 51. What’s your status?_ ”

Johnny took the radio from Roy. He’d seen Cap’s face earlier; Roy hadn’t.

“Hydrant is flowing, and we have a minor code I. No additional squad needed.”

“ _Copy that. We’re gonna be busy here for another twenty minutes, but I’ll send someone with the squad when I can._ ”

“Acknowledged,” Johnny said.

They sat on the curb, both acutely aware that there was a fire on the other side of the wall, and that there was nothing they could do but sit there.

“Can’t remember the last time I hit a hydrant,” Johnny said.

“Looks like you remembered how.”

Another few seconds passed.

“Man, that reeks,” Johnny said. “Even from here. I gotta say, I’m not sorry to be sittin’ this one out.”

“They’re probably good for manpower anyhow,” Roy said.

“Yep,” Johnny replied.

The woman who had spoken to Johnny earlier emerged from her house, carrying a bundle in both hands.

“Here’s some ice,” she said, handing Johnny a plastic bag of ice wrapped in a linen tea towel. “And are you okay?” she asked Roy.

“Yes ma’am,” Roy said. “I just turned my ankle coming over that wall, there.”

The woman looked down at them with concern.

“Is someone coming to get you?” she asked.

“Well,” Johnny replied, “they’re a little tied up over there until the fire is totally out.”

The woman glanced over the sound barrier wall.

“I don’t really see any smoke,” she said. “Doesn’t that mean it’s out?”

Johnny shook his head. “The main fire is probably mostly out, but there’s this thing called ‘overhaul,’ where you pick everything apart to make sure nothing’s still hot enough to rekindle the fire. And that,” Johnny said, holding up a finger, and pausing so everyone would listen to the rumbling sound he heard, “is where the real fun begins. Because what they’re gonna do next is …”

~!~!~!~

“Seriously?” Ben asked Captain Stanley.

“Dump it all out,” Cap repeated. “And if you can dump and roll at the same time, to spread everything out, that would be ideal.”

“Okay,” Ben said dubiously. He returned to his garbage truck, and restarted the engine. He flipped the switch that would allow him to dump the load, and inched the truck forwards as he gradually tipped the load out of the back of the truck.

“This just feels wrong,” he said to himself. “Dumping everything out on the highway.”

Behind the truck, Marco and Cap separated the clumps of smoking and steaming garbage with pike poles, while Chet sprayed each chunk, cooling the refuse bit by bit. Filthy water streamed off the pile, running over the men’s boots.

The stream of putrid water flowed, of course, directly towards Engine 51. Mike gagged as the stench from the steaming water wafted up to his nose. He breathed through his mouth for a few inhalations, and then grimaced and spat on the ground.

“Bad idea, Stoker. Smells bad; tastes worse,” he said to himself.

He watched the rest of the crew as they stood amongst the debris and picked through the filth, and resolved not to complain out loud again.

“Hey Cap,” Marco said, poking at a charred lump with his pike pole. “Take a look at this.”

Cap pulled the lump apart with his heavy fire gloves, and picked a relatively uncharred piece of rag out from the mass. He put it towards his nose, but not too close.

“Linseed oil,” he said, passing the rag to Marco. “Don’t you think?”

“Yep. I though I could smell it when I pulled that clump away from that … whatever it is,” Marco said, wrinkling his nose.

“Well, I’d lay money on that being our culprit,” Cap said. “I’ll bag it up in case the insurance company wants to take a look. Good find, Lopez.” Cap left the scene for a moment, to put a few of the rags in a plastic bag, sealing it tightly to make sure no air could get in and allow the oils to spontaneously combust again.

“I’m surprised I could smell it over the stench of the rest of this junk. Let’s get this over with,” Marco said, starting again to separate hunks of who-knew-what from each other so Chet could cool everything down.

Fifteen stench-ridden minutes later, the overhaul job was done to Captain Stanley’s satisfaction. He and Mike broke down the attack lines and repacked them onto the engine, and Chet and Marco hauled the supply line back over the wall and packed it onto the hosebed. A front loader from the Department of Public Works was standing by to scoop everything back into the garbage truck, which would then be allowed to continue on its way.

Chet hosed down the pike poles with the reel line, and everyone hosed their boots down.

“Why we wear these duty boots during the day shift is beyond me,” Mike complained. “Why not wear the rubber fire boots on _all_ our runs where there’s a fire, for crying out loud. I don’t think I’m _ever_ gonna get the stink out of this leather.”

“Amen to that, brother,” Chet said. “And say, shouldn’t we be doing something about Gage and DeSoto right about now?”

“Yes, indeed we should,” Cap said. “Chet, you mind going to pick them up in the squad?”

“Sure thing, Cap,” Chet said.

“Come back here when you’ve got them, so we can return to the station with a full engine crew. And Marco,” Cap said, “you can get the ladders put away. We’re done here.”

Cap’s attention was captured by someone clearing their throat behind him. It was Dave, the garbage truck’s driver.

“Oh—your truck should be ready to roll as soon as all the garbage is loaded back in,” Cap said. “And we think we found the cause—there were some linseed oil soaked rags, and they can spontaneously combust in certain conditions. They were mostly charred, but there was one that survived somewhat. Your insurance company can get my report, through the L.A. County Fire Department HQ.”

“Thanks,” Dave said. “I’m glad it wasn’t some kind of problem with the truck.”

“Nope,” Cap said. “Just a problem with the garbage.”

“Well, there’s one more problem,” Dave said. “We were full when this happened, and now everything’s all wet, so if it all gets loaded back in, we’ll be way overweight.”

“Hmm,” Cap said, frowning. “Good point. Why don’t you talk to the deputy, there? That’s a problem that’s a little out of my league.”

Dave went to talk to the deputy, while Cap, Chet, and Marco put equipment away. As they finished, the garbage truck drove off, leaving one Sheriff’s patrol car, the DPW’s front loader, and a pile of wet, charred garbage on the shoulder of the highway.

“Deputy, we’re gonna clear out,” Cap said to the officer. “We’ve got to get back in service, as soon as our other vehicle comes back with the rest of our crew.”

“No problem,” the deputy said. “We’re standing by for another truck to take the rest of this. The driver was right—they woulda been unsafely overweight, loaded up with sopping wet garbage.”

Cap nodded. “Good catch on his part. Wouldn’t want to be responding to a garbage truck crash when he can’t stop when he needs to.”

The squad pulled up to the scene, and Chet hopped out, letting Johnny slide from the narrow middle seat into the driver’s seat. Captain Stanley approached the driver-side window.

“What’s the word, Gage?”

“Well, Roy here needs an x-ray for sure. So I guess we’re off to Rampart,” Johnny said.

Roy waved a hand in acknowledgment.

Cap frowned. “So, what happened, exactly?” he asked, looking at Roy this time.

Roy sighed. “I just landed badly when I dropped off that wall. I poked around while we were waiting on the other side, and there was a good-sized rock right where I landed. Just a stupid accident.”

“Now,” Cap said, “don’t be so hard on yourself, pal. I’m guessing you’re gonna need a sub, right?”

Roy nodded. “No chance I’m fit for duty the rest of the shift. Sorry, Cap.”

“Nothing to apologize for. Just go get that taken care of, all right?”

“Will do, Cap. Sor—” Roy barely restrained himself from another apology. “Thanks.”

Cap patted the roof of the squad, as a surrogate gesture for patting his injured man. Johnny drove off, and the exhaust from the squad briefly cut through the stench of the scene.

Chet and Marco were in their seats, but Mike was still outside the cab, inspecting his boots.

“Time to go, Stoker,” Cap reminded him.

“Yeah, okay,” Mike said, climbing up into his seat. He grumbled something under his breath, but all Cap could understand was “stench” and “leather.” They drove up the highway to the next exit, and doubled back in the other direction, returning to the station.

Chet, Mike, and Marco sprayed down the hoses they’d used, and hung everything on the hose tower to drain and dry, while Cap caught a quick shower and did the paperwork for the somewhat unusual run.

“Rock-paper-scissors for first shower,” Chet said to Marco, once their tasks were done. Mike had reluctantly volunteered to be last, which was only fair since he’d had the least contact with the disgusting mess that Chet and Marco had pretty much been wallowing in.

“No way—you win again!” Marco protested.

“Marco, babe, how many times have I told you—you start with ‘scissors,’ every single time,” Chet said, making his way into the locker room. “I’m always gonna win if you keep doin’ that.”

“Best two out of three?” Marco said hopefully.

“Sure, why not. No scissors, though,” Chet cautioned. “You can’t expect to win if you do the same thing every single time.”

They performed the ritual again, but this time, Marco won—with scissors, to Chet’s paper.

“Hey, no fair!” Chet said. “You weren’t gonna _do_ scissors!”

“I didn’t say that,” Marco said. “We’re tied. One more.”

They shook their fists again in the childish contest. Chet’s hand showed a rock, as if he were expecting to come up against scissors once more, and Marco’s, this time, showed paper.

“Hah!” Marco said, dashing past Mike to the locker room to claim his shower.

Chet looked at Mike.

“He cheated,” Chet said. “I don’t know how, exactly, but that _had_ to be cheating.”

Mike raised his eyebrows. “How, exactly, can you cheat at rock-paper-scissors?”

“By … by … I don’t know _how_ ,” Chet huffed, “but he _did_.”

“I’d say he just outsmarted you,” Mike concluded. “Psychology, you know? Pretend to be predictable, and then be the opposite.”

“Psychology, huh?” Chet said thoughtfully. “I guess I’ve got a new topic to read up on.”

Mike groaned inwardly, suspecting he had unwittingly unleashed a new Kelly obsession on the rest of the shift.

At that moment, the squad pulled into the apparatus bay, temporarily distracting Chet from his befuddlement and Mike from his dismay. Johnny got out of the driver’s seat, and Chet and Mike were surprised to see Roy hobble into the day room on crutches.

“DeSoto!” Chet said. “I thought for sure you’d be on the disabled list. How come they let you come back?”

Mike pulled a chair out for Roy, who then sat at the table, leaning his crutches against the edge.

“Nobody ‘let’ me do anything,” Roy said, irritation apparent in his voice. “In fact, I have to take at least the next two weeks off, all because of a stupid rock. I’m only here because it’s easier for Joanne to come pick me up here than at the hospital. And it’s not broken, just sprained, thanks very much for asking.”

“How bad did they say it was?” Mike asked.

“Just a mild sprain. But you know the rules,” Roy said. “Gotta be fit for anything the job might throw at us. Like, say, standing on a roof with a running K-12. And by the way, you guys reek.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Don’t get me started, DeSoto. The boots alone … well, they’re almost as much of a disaster as the fire itself.”

“That’s right, DeSoto—please, _please_ don’t get him started on the boots,” Chet groaned. “The whole way back, he complained about the smell. As if we don’t all have the same exact problem.”

“They _reek_ ,” Mike continued, as if he hadn’t heard Chet’s last lament. “And how the heck are we gonna get the garbage stink out of them? I mean, it’s soaked into the leather!”

“You guys obviously don’t have kids,” Roy said.

“Huh?” Johnny said. “I mean, I was lucky enough to escape getting garbage-boot, but what do the kids have to do with it?”

“They’re messy,” Roy said patiently. “They step in everything and anything. And don’t ask me how, but at least once a year, one of them manages to pee in or on their shoes. But kitty litter takes care of more than just cats. I’ll call Joanne, and have her pick up a big bag on her way over. Mix in a pound of baking soda, bury all the smelly boots in the stuff, and they’ll be a lot better by the next shift. You’ll have to clean them up from the dust, but the smell will be a lot less bad.”

There was a moment of silence as Chet and Mike pondered Roy’s suggestion.

“I’ll try anything at this point,” Mike said. “And I’d bring you the phone if it weren’t bolted to the wall.”

Roy heaved himself up on his crutches. Mike fished a dime out of his pocket and handed it to Roy. Five minutes later, the deodorization plan was in place.

“Man, once you’re clean, you realize how bad everything smells,” Marco said, coming back into the day room, fresh from his shower. He had a clean uniform on, and was wearing his spare pair of boots.

“I’m next,” Chet said, hurrying out of the room.

Johnny waved his hand in front of his face, pretending to fan the odor away.

“Can’t say I’m sorry I missed that overhaul job,” he said.

Roy scowled at him.

“I mean, I’m sorry you twisted your ankle and all, which is I guess what let me get out of it, but … uh,” Johnny scrounged for appropriate words. “I’m not sorry I missed the stink bomb.”

Mike stared at him. “You know,” he said slowly, “I think this is a first.”

Cap emerged from his office and entered the day room just in time to hear Mike’s remark.

“What’s a first, Stoker? And man, it _stinks_ in here!”

Mike chewed the inside of his cheeks for a moment, to bite back the response that he, the last one in line for a desperately-needed shower, wanted to provide. Instead, he said, “It’s a first that out of all of us, Gage was the only one to escape some kind of catastrophe.”

“Hmm,” Hank said as neutrally as possible. He’d learned long ago to stay out of the type of discussion that seemed to be about to happen.

“Now wait a second!” Johnny protested.

Captain Stanley started a pot of coffee, listening with quiet amusement as Johnny started his predictable self-defense, and Mike, in his own quiet way, egged him on. When he wanted to, Mike could get Johnny going even better than Chet could.

A few minutes later, Chet returned from the shower and joined the lively discussion, and Mike silently slid out of the room, leaving the flames he’d fanned to develop as they would.

As the percolator’s silence announced its readiness, Hank started filling the six mugs he’d gotten out of the cabinets.

Mike returned to the room just in time for the fresh coffee. Hank noticed he finally looked relaxed after the one of the fouler runs he could remember. Chet and Johnny had somehow managed to peacefully end the discussion Mike had, Hank realized, purposely started just to annoy Gage, and were seated at the kitchen table, each reading a section of the morning’s paper. Roy was on the sofa with his foot up on the coffee table, and Marco, at the other end of the sofa, was reading a magazine.

Hank had a sudden moment of fondness for the five men on his crew. Sure, they could be annoying as hell, each in his own particular way, but each of them was not only superb at his own combination of duties, but also a good friend. Hank winced when his gaze found Roy’s elevated foot, the ankle visibly swollen even under Rampart’s expertly applied elastic bandage. It hurt Hank, badly, each and every time one of his men was injured, even as slightly as Roy had been hurt that afternoon.

But they were all there—all safe—and that was what counted. Every shift, every call, Hank’s mission was to bring his men back alive, and though Roy would be out for a couple of weeks, he’d be fine.

The men had been bickering after the call, but Hank knew that wouldn’t last long. Sometimes it changed to raucous, rowdy fun, or sometimes, as it had today, the bickering subsided to quiet camaraderie.

Hank sat quietly, not reading, not doing anything other than looking around the room at each of his men, and thinking about captains he knew who had had times when they weren’t able to do that. He thought about men he knew who had answered the final alarm. Though he wasn’t the praying sort, at moments like this he wished he were. Instead, he just watched his crew.

A voice beside him spoke quietly.

“You all right, Cap?” Mike asked.

Hank smiled, but didn’t try to shake off the feelings he was experiencing. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

.

~!~!~!~!~!~

Andrew Ashcraft

Kevin Woyjeck

Anthony Rose

Eric Marsh

Christopher MacKenzie

Robert Caldwell

Clayton Whitted

Scott Norris

Dustin Deford

Sean Misner

Garret Zuppiger

Travis Carter

Grant McKee

Travis Turbyfill

Jesse Steed

Wade Parker

Joe Thurston

William Warneke

John Percin

 

Also please keep Brendan McDonough in your thoughts.

 

~!~!~!~!~!~

**Series TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated with myself about whether this chapter could actually be considered fanfiction. What I decided, though, is that it is, because the main character, although never credited, appears in every season of the show. I’m sure this has been done before, since it’s so obvious, but here’s my take on the motivations of this recurring guest character.

**Chapter 5.**

BEFORE.

~~~~incipient~~~~

When I was born, I was small, but hungry. I don’t remember the actual moment of my birth, of course. But I know it happened inside a wall, because that is where I first became aware of my own existence.

~~~~growth~~~~

I had one and only one purpose, and that is to grow. Like any predator, I had to consume in order to grow. It’s not an act of cruelty, and the violence that ensues is just part of the natural course of things, and not an end unto itself. Consumption is violent, no matter how it is done.

Immediately after my birth, it wasn’t clear whether I’d survive. I needed three things to flourish: heat, oxygen, and fuel. Inside the wall where I was born, there was heat, coming from two wires that were never meant to be bare, and never meant to touch. The mice that had chewed their plastic coating off skittered away as I approached, but would themselves soon fuel my growth.

Once I was born, I continued making my own heat. I had plenty of fuel—the insides of the walls were framed with quite delectable wood. But soon, it became hard to breathe, as my growth and consumption of fuel used up the oxygen in the small compartment where I was born. If I didn’t find more oxygen, I would die before I was fully grown.

~~~~fully developed~~~~

Soon enough, though, I gnawed my way through the wall, and rejoiced in finding a new, large room, immense compared to the inside of the wall, where there was plenty of oxygen, and delicious new fuel.

~~~~flashover~~~~

I consumed fuel and oxygen, and I grew. I could feel myself growing stronger, and the larger I grew, the more fuel I needed, and the more oxygen I needed in order to be able to digest the fuel effectively. I grew to fill the room I’d opened up into.

Within the room, the oxygen-containing air was pressed lower and lower to the floor by the combination of delicious hot gases and my beautiful flames. Soon, the whole room was at my peak temperatures, and everything that could burn was burning.

But after just a few minutes of this glory, during which I frantically devoured everything I could touch, I began to need more oxygen than was available.

~~~~decay~~~~

I had filled the sealed room with my own waste products, from floor to ceiling. I needed more oxygen to grow again, to have any hope of escaping the untenable environment I’d created for myself. If I could have controlled my own movements, I might have been able to break into another room, but my movements were governed by the laws of physics, and not my own petty desires. So I languished, snacking on gases being released from decomposing fuel, waiting for an opportunity to grow again. Waiting to breathe freely once more.

There were surfaces in the room that I knew I could not devour, unless I attained the heat of a sun, or of a nuclear inferno. One of these surfaces had the gall to try to reflect my own heat back at me, and at the same time to keep me from the oxygen I could almost smell on the other side of the transparent surface. I quickly quashed the mocking, covering the smooth, thin surface with particles of my own waste, until it was dark black, and had no choice but to absorb the intense heat I threw back at it.

I continued to fill the room with partially-digested gases. Without the aid of more oxygen, I just couldn’t finish everything I tried to eat. Wisps of the precious gas came in through cracks developing in some of the rooms surfaces, and in turn I puffed wasted out of those same cracks, just as an organism might breathe. In, out. In, out.

~~~~backdraft~~~~

All at once, one of the thin, shiny, inedible surfaces that I had covered with my soot buckled. I was no longer separated from the outside, and a rush of fresh, delicious, oxygen-rich air fed me. I grew, and _grew_ , explosively and gloriously! I was suddenly hotter and larger than I’d ever been, and I gobbled up the partially-combusted gases I’d been snacking on halfheartedly only minutes before. I devoured any remaining solid fuel in the room. Nothing could stop me now! My heat tore through the ceiling, quickly ravaging the fuel between the ceiling and the roof, and finally I was free, shooting my beautiful flames through the roof of the house and into the night.

Vinyl siding melted, and produced delicious gases for me to feed on. Asphalt shingles had their own special tang. In this modern structure, there were so many things made of plastics, and they were delicious—first they were solid, and I could chew on them, but as I made them get hotter, they melted, and outgassed, producing a scrumptious secondary flavor. My favorite, though, by far, was the wood that was the main structure of the building. It was so easy to consume, didn’t have any unpleasant aftertaste, and there was so, _so_ much of it!

There were some elements in the structure that I couldn’t consume, but that felt my power nonetheless. Pipes burst when the water in them became superheated steam, but the puny quantities of the poisonous liquid affected me not at all. Windows shattered, sometimes from my tremendous heat, and sometimes from my other kinds of power. Plaster cracked, and crumbled into dust.

NOW.

~~~~extinguishment~~~~

Something is happening! Oh, it cools, it _cools_ so painfully! The cold hurts me, like I know the heat hurt the mice. Water is everywhere, a deluge from above, from the sides. At first my heat vaporized the water, but now there is so much of it, coming from everywhere, that I fear for my very life.

I am still hot—the water is rising as steam—but my heat is waning. I can no longer eat solid foods so easily, and the solids are not turning to gases as quickly. I am beginning to fear for my life! I fight valiantly, but I weaken with every gallon of the vile liquid that touches me.

~~~~under control~~~~

The water is pouring over me now, and I know the end is near. There is still plenty of fuel, which I move towards hungrily, but the struggle to stay warm is sapping my energy. My heat, my precious, life-sustaining heat, is being robbed from me by the men with the water. I lick at them angrily, through a window that they haven’t applied water into yet, but to no avail—my tentacle of flame is immediately quenched when a stream of the horrible fluid is redirected to the fuel that produced the gout of flame.

I know I am doomed when the men start getting closer, and closer. My body has split into many smaller fires, and it pains me as each is extinguished. I have cleverly hidden most of myself under collapsed beams, where I know that the men will not want to go, but all too soon the deluge from above finds my hiding spot, and I am so, so cold.

AFTER.

~~~~overhaul~~~~

I have been reduced, from all my glory, to minuscule hot spots, lingering in the ruins created by my orgiastic feasting. My roars have subsided into whimpers, as the men now begin finding all the hiding places of all the children I spawned. One by one, places where heat is hiding are discovered, and the fuel is prodded, rolled, and cooled—oh, the pain!—with yet more water. Steam rises, giving away the hiding places, and although it takes nearly as much time as the fiercest part of the battle, the pockets of heat are conquered.

All except for one.

~~~~rekindle~~~~

I burrowed into a heavy beam between the first floor and the basement—a tiny ember. Not even an ember, really, but more a dream of a flame. The mass of the beam contained my heat long after the last man left. I waited, growing slowly but steadily, all throughout the day, until nearly twenty-four hours after the time of my first birth.

When I was ready, I ate through the porous beam, pushing my way through to the surface. The fuel nearby was waterlogged, and not easy to eat, but as I got hotter, I was able to spread to some of the other fuel that remained after my initial gorging.

I knew, when I started this new life, that I would never be as glorious as I once was. But still—the feeling of coming to life from what looked, even to trained eyes, like a pile of dead ashes, was exhilarating.

Soon, they would come to me again, but in a way, just by making them return, I had won, from one point of view.

Some time later, probably after I started producing visible waste, they came for me again. This time, I was vanquished in minutes.

But I would be back. I would return, to some other place, at some other time.

I always come back.

  
  


**Series TBC.**

  
  



End file.
